


hell was the journey (but it brought me heaven)

by fleeceframe



Series: dean saves the world and now he gets to be happy [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Archangel Castiel (Supernatural), Baker Dean Winchester, Castiel's Angelic Grace (Supernatural), Domestic Fluff, F/M, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, What Finale?, dean and eileen are best friends, everyone listens to folklore, found family trope all the way, retirement baby!, sequel to closer (isn't close enough) but can be read alone, whats better than the sweet domesticity that our boys deserve after saving the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29101320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleeceframe/pseuds/fleeceframe
Summary: There’s a tag sticking out over the collar of the soft cotton, and it’s an easy distraction from Sam’s droning voice. Dean stares at it for a second before reaching over and tucking it back into its rightful spot, his fingertips brushing the back of Cas’s neck in the process.“I have The Butterflies,” Cas interrupts Sam to announce loudly.Dean startles back, and Sam stops talking, looks between the two of them in disbelief. Taylor continues to croon.“I’m sorry- what?”or the one where dean and sam finally retire, dean bakes, eileen mixes drinks, everyone has the butterflies, and folklore is the album of the year
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy & Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Series: dean saves the world and now he gets to be happy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2135196
Comments: 47
Kudos: 259





	hell was the journey (but it brought me heaven)

**Author's Note:**

> just wanted to put a tw on references to derogatory language against disabled people in reference to eileen, though it is made in passing from the perspective of someone else. as for the story, genuinely have no clue how this came to me. it was a fever dream. if you want to follow along with the songs playing in the fic because i think that's fun, this is their order:  
> cardigan  
> my tears ricochet  
> august  
> invisible string  
> illicit affairs  
> betty  
> the last great american dynasty

These days, things feel a lot lighter. When Dean putters through the Bunker, music plays randomly, from a bedroom or the kitchen or a bathroom late at night; sometimes with a voice accompanying it, other times just soothing white noise. The stagnant underground air is celebratory in hindsight, like even though the world was saved over a month ago, the implications of how big that triumph was are just setting in. 

And living each day is easier now that Cas sucked the leftover PTSD out of his brain. After some discussion, he’d helped Sam as well. Cas even offered to heal Eileen, who accepted under the circumstance that she got the watered-down version because she ‘definitely didn’t need whatever they were having’. Which is a little sad, but it took Dean a whole three minutes to stop laughing. 

Finally, there is room to breathe. There’s domesticity to the concrete walls that was never there before, and Dean finds himself baking more nights than not. He’s getting pretty good, at least that’s what Eileen tells him, and he stopped trying to fight the giddy feeling he got each time she requested some outrageous flavor and he finally nailed it. Mostly, he makes her pie, makes Sam something stingy like croissants, makes Cas jealous because he can’t taste any of it.

It’s enough, Dean thinks, to be here. It’s enough that Cas stays whenever he can, only poofs off to heaven for a few hours a week. Enough that he always comes back.

Things are still new between them, but then, how is anything new when you’ve secretly loved each other for a decade and have watched each other die multiple times. So, in a lot of ways, some things haven’t changed. In others, Dean has to remind himself that he doesn’t have to find excuses to touch Cas anymore. When he meets Cas’s gaze from across the room where Castiel is helping Sam with a jigsaw puzzle, he doesn’t have to look away.

The sensations are fresh and surreal, every time Dean feels brave enough to lean in for a kiss that he had to psych himself up to give for a full five minutes beforehand. Every time they’re watching a movie in the Dean Cave and Cas lays his head on Dean’s shoulder.

The thoughts rush up on him now as starts his morning routine. He can hear Sam making breakfast down the hall while something by Taylor Swift plays, one of the few artists all of the residents of the Bunker can agree on. _folklore’s_ tinny acoustics seem to be a new permanent fixture, like the map table or the telescope that no one ever uses.

Dean thinks he can hear Cas’s voice, too, Eileen chiming something in over the floating melody. And since there’s no one around to see, he smiles. His chin is tucked to his chest, and he leans on to the sink, smiling down at the drain like an idiot.

“Thank you, Jack,” he says to the empty air, because that has become part of his morning routine as well. As expected, the light above the sink flickers twice in response. It’s just something they do now, just something small for Dean that not even Cas knows about. And that’s okay, too.

Dean brushes his teeth, inspecting the stubble on his face and frowning when he realizes he should probably shave today. He spits into the sink and with a sigh, he goes about getting out everything he needs. He slings a towel over his shoulder, and pumps the shaving gel into his hands, rubbing them together to get the gel to foam. He’s just about to start smoothing it onto his face when the sound of footsteps approaching the closed door stops him. There’s a gentle knock, before Cas’s head peaks in.

He smiles fondly when they lock eyes, and the smile grows when he sees that Dean’s hands are covered in white foam.

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas says like he feels lucky he gets to say it at all. Dean understands the sentiment. 

Sometimes, Cas will lay with Dean when he sleeps, other times Dean insists that Cas at least get some work done since Dean’s not going to be the most involved company, anyway. This had been one such night, and even though it’s been less than twelve hours since they last saw each other, it feels like a century has passed.

“Mornin’, Cas,” he replies, maybe softer than he intended to. Not like there’s anyone here to call him on it anyway. “Just getting ready to shave.” He raises his messy hands as if in proof.

“Would you mind some company?” And, yeah, definitely still new. It makes Dean want to squirm in happiness, but he schools his expression. He knows he doesn’t really need to anymore, but old habits die hard, and he’s still Dean Winchester. 

“No, ‘course not. I can’t promise I’m gonna be very interesting, though.”

Cas pushes all the way into the bathroom, closing the door again behind him. When he scoots past Dean to get to the other side of the room, his hand presses briefly against Dean’s lower back as if in greeting. “You’re always interesting, Dean,” Cas says simply, and then closes the toilet lid to sit on top of it.

Dean has to force back a blush, and when he’s unsuccessful, he uses the shaving cream on his hands to cover it up. “Heh,” he responds bashfully. He clears his throat and watches himself apply the shaving cream in the mirror to avoid meeting Cas’s gaze. “How’s heaven?”

“Heaven is good.” Cas sits up straight, hands folded neatly in his lap. “Not much progress has been made if I’m honest. All of the big changes have been taken care of, but the little things will take longer to work out.” He sighs wearily, but he’s smiling underneath it. “Last night I was helping Jack decide how to split the workload of creation, miracles, and defense strategies between the angels.”

“Oooh,” Dean frowns, and shoots Cas a sympathetic look. “Long night then, huh?”

“Long night,” Cas confirms, before glancing at him from under his eyelashes. “Better now that I’m home.”

They lock eyes, and Dean forgets to breathe. He wonders what his face looks like, dopey and open in surprise because his brain feels clogged with all of the emotions that rush to the surface at once. Probably idiotic with the shaving cream covering half of his face.

Finally, Dean blinks. “Y-yeah, Cas, I’m glad that you- uh, that you’re better now.”

With a grimace at his own awkwardness, he turns back to the mirror again and finally picks his straight razor up off of the counter. They literally had sex two nights ago. How is Dean so bad at this?

But Cas doesn’t seem to mind, or maybe he can just read Dean like a goddamn book, because he offers him a soft smile out of the corner of Dean’s eye. “How has your morning been?”

“Good,” Dean replies, bringing the razor up to his cheek. He swipes it across the skin in a practiced motion. The blade is sharp enough that it doesn’t pull, lifts the stubble away cleanly, and he rinses it under the tap for the next go. “Nothing too exciting. Sam went on his run and Eileen and I had pancakes for breakfast. Now I’m here. You didn’t miss much.”

“Regular pancakes, or did you decide to try something new?”

Dean continues the meditative rhythm of shaving, rinsing, and repeating as he answers. “Broke out the old cinnamon recipe. Sautéed some apples and put ‘em on top, too. Sam nearly shit his pants.” He snickers, “You know how he is about the sweet stuff. Kept going on about how I mutilated his precious produce or whatever. Eileen liked it, though, and he can’t argue with her. She’s even better at the puppy eyes than he is.”

Cas hums, his lips ticking up at the corner. “Yes, she is very good. She somehow convinced me to continuously make her margaritas the other night while she had a ‘solo dance party’.”

Dean has to pull the razor away from his face to laugh so he doesn’t cut himself. “That’s my girl.”

Cas makes a noise of agreement, and then they exist in comfortable silence together. Dean likes this, too, he thinks, not having to always talk or always explain himself. He hums under his breath to the almost inaudible tune of _cardigan_ , hips swaying back and forth because he can, because sometimes he gets tired of pretending anything these days. It’s still hard, but he’s trying to leave the pretending behind with the lost, lonely version of him that stopped existing after Jack became God and brought Cas back. Home.

It’s one of those calm moments he never thought he’d have, and the soft music makes it sweeter than Dean feels like he deserves. He can hear Cas’s fingers tapping along to the beat on the porcelain of the toilet lid under him. 

When Dean brings the razor up to his neck, his humming peters to nothing and he holds himself still, jutting his chin out to stretch the skin taut. It’s meditative, and the harder task of maneuvering around the bumps of his chin and lips is out of the way. The next stroke of the razor holds the weight of Cas’s eyes with it.

Dean can just tell, can feel Cas watching him, and if he weren’t so used to the stares and so familiar with the shaving process, he’d probably nick himself with shaking hands. As it stands, he keeps with the tempo of shave, rinse, repeat, and pretends he doesn’t know Cas is looking at him. Because Cas is allowed to look at him. Because they’re together. 

Sometimes, he gets jealous of how easy it seems for Cas to be so transparent about it. He purses his lips, and there’s only one more column of shaving cream on his neck to go over.

“It’s strange,” Cas finally breaks through the moment quietly. “I find watching you shave arousing.” There’s no heat in his voice, though, just mild curiosity.

Dean huffs out a laugh when the last stroke of the razor leaves his neck clean. Only Cas. And once again, Dean feels struck down by the openness. “Yeah? How come?”

“I’m… not sure,” Cas says like he’s actually trying to figure it out. When Dean finally glances over at him, his head is tilted and he’s squinting at Dean’s face. “I enjoy the way you seem comfortable in this space. The blade looks good in your hand. It’s nice to see you use your skills of precision for something to take care of yourself with. I like the way that you focus, and the way the skin of your neck stretches when you tilt your head.”

God, Jesus, how is Dean ever supposed to get used to this? Even the slight familiarity of sexual tension isn’t there for him to hang on to because Cas makes his confession of arousal so damn romantic, like it’s the type of appreciation that sits between sex and love in its own little bubble.

And Dean really has no idea how to respond now, but he’s always been better with his actions than his words. He towels off the bottom half of his face, reaches for his aftershave, and pats it into his freshly smooth skin. It fills the air with a fragrance like the outdoors, woody and rainy. Sam had bought him a bottle for Christmas, once, a long time ago, and Dean had actually liked it so much that he kept buying it when he ran out even though it cost more than he would’ve liked to spend.

He hopes Cas likes it, too, because Dean spans the short distance between them and uses all of his courage to straddle Cas’s lap. If Cas is surprised by the closeness, it doesn’t show.

But he does stare. He stares like he’s drinking in every aspect of Dean’s face. Cas’s eyes are wide and beautiful in the warm, yellow light of the bathroom. They shine when they rove around between his features.

“What?” Dean mumbles. 

Cas actually starts to blush. For once, he looks as nervous as Dean feels. “You’re very handsome,” he says like an admittance and he’s so damn shy about it. 

It’s a whiplash from the confidence Cas had just a second ago, the confidence Cas had two nights ago when he was drilling Dean into the sheets and telling him he “shone like the brightest star in the night sky”.

And Dean wonders if maybe he got this whole thing backwards. Maybe Cas doesn’t have fewer hangups, he’s just a lot braver than Dean is. 

The compliment warms up under Dean’s skin. For as grandiose as most of Cas’s compliments are, Dean can’t remember him ever commenting on his appearance. And maybe that’s why he’s blushing like he just told Dean a secret.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” Dean says, and rests a hand on Cas’s cheek. It makes Cas smile. Dean wants to see more, wants to say more. He takes a breath and tries to remember how to be suave. He used to be good at this. “Those pretty blue eyes. You could turn someone into a puddle just lookin’ at ‘em. And this mouth,” Dean runs his thumb along the seam of Cas’s lips, “very kissable. I’d know.” He grins at his own brag. 

But Cas is all wide-eyed now, as if mesmerized in disbelief, like he’s hanging on to every word Dean is saying. All of his edges are softened. Dean’s thumb comes up to brush across the flutter of Cas’s dark eyelashes, and the angel doesn’t even flinch. There’s something sprouting between them, just like that, a new level unlocked and Dean feels the shift like something physical.

Dean’s other hand cups Cas’s other cheek until he’s cradling his face in his palms. They both stare, they both wait. _my tears ricochet_ plays from somewhere far away. He’s never seen Castiel look so fragile. They’re close to each other, their faces inches apart, both too scared to lean in around that new nervousness of being seen like this.

There’re waves riding up in Dean’s chest with memories of the person he used to be. He thinks he used to be able to touch people gently. The way that he used to hug Charlie, the way Claire had taught him to braid her hair. There’s a crease between his eyebrows at the thought. He wonders when he stopped feeling like he could touch someone without hurting them. But there’s room to try, here, now.

When Dean finally leans in, he does it slowly, holds Cas’s face steady with laser focus. He means this too much, everything means too much to be able to lean in at all. His eyes are closed and his eyebrows are furrowed in concentration because he needs Cas to get it, how big it all feels to be sitting in his lap in this shitty little bathroom.

He presses his lips to the very corner of Cas’s mouth. The kiss is dry and hesitant. Cas is stock-still underneath him, but he’s got a hand clinging onto the bend of Dean’s elbow. Dean pulls back and kisses his cheek, pulls back and kisses the skin just below his eye, a quiet noise with each one, and then moves to the other side to repeat the process. Every time his lips meet Cas’s skin, the angel’s breath catches.

Dean pulls back, and Cas’s bottom lip is trembling. 

“I-” Cas’s voice is shaking. 

Dean kisses him on the mouth, Cas’s face in his palms, and his own heart in his throat. He could cry from it all. Cas’s hands are bunched up in the fabric of his t-shirt around his waist, and he’s kissing back just as softly. The bathroom is lost to the sound of their kisses, the way that Cas gasps into Dean’s mouth like his emotions are getting the better of him, too. Their lips stick for a second when Dean finally pulls away.

He stays close though so that he can taste the air that leaves Cas’s mouth. Their noses bump. His gut is churning in delight and nerves and finally being able to touch. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it. He never wants to.

Dean presses one last lingering kiss to Cas’s lips before he finally leans back.

Cas reaches up to touch his own cheek, his fingers bumping against Dean’s.

“I can still smell your aftershave,” he rumbles, looking thoroughly pleased. Then, his eyebrows knit together. “My stomach feels… odd.”

Dean frowns, “Odd like sick?”

“No, it- it’s turbulent. When you kissed me.”

And Dean thinks he might know exactly where this is going, wouldn’t be able to bite back the smile threatening to crack his face in half if he wanted to.

“Does it feel sorta… fluttery? Nervous?”

Cas’s expression lifts in surprise. “Yes, exactly.”

Dean drops his hands to Cas’s shoulders and squeezes. “You’ve got the butterflies, man.”

“The butterflies?” Cas asks dubiously.

“Yeah! Ya know, the butterflies!” He can’t help but tease, especially with the way Cas is tilting his head at him again. “Like when you have a crush, or you really like someone, and they make you nervous in a good way. Your stomach starts to feel all funny when they get close to you.”

Cas purses his lips thoughtfully, then nods. “Yes, I guess I have The Butterflies, then.” He’s so damn serious about it that all Dean can do is laugh and lean in to kiss him again.

...

But that’s not really the end of it.

Because the next day they’re talking to Sammy at the map table, the now constant speaker Sam bought sitting in its usual spot at the head playing _august_ quietly. He’s going on about some new gym that’s opening in town that Dean couldn’t care less about when Dean glances over at Cas and notices that the tag of his shirt is sticking out.

Technically, it’s Dean’s shirt. When Cas spends the night Dean insists that Cas changes so that Dean doesn’t wake up with a button up his nose, and Cas will usually wear whatever Dean gave him around for the day. Not all the time, though, because Dean would miss the trenchcoat too much even though he’d never admit it.

There’s a tag sticking out over the collar of the soft cotton, and it’s an easy distraction from Sam’s droning voice. Dean stares at it for a second before reaching over and tucking it back into its rightful spot, his fingertips brushing the back of Cas’s neck in the process. 

“I have The Butterflies,” Cas interrupts Sam to announce loudly.

Dean startles back, and Sam stops talking, looks between the two of them in disbelief. Taylor continues to croon. 

“I’m sorry- _what?_ ”

Before Dean can open his mouth, Cas is responding. “The Butterflies. When you have feelings for someone and they get close to you in a way that makes you pleasantly nervous. Dean tucked the tag into my shirt for me, and it gave me The Butterflies.”

Sam lets out an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, I know what butterflies are, Cas.” His eyes flicker to Dean with an amused and skeptical look.

“So you get them, too?” Cas says seriously.

“Huh?”

Cas rolls his eyes. “The Butterflies, you get them too?”

Sam’s mouth turns down thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess so. I mean, usually people only say that kinda stuff when they’re little kids, ya know? Like when a kid sees a girl in a dress for the first time and has some awakening about crushes or whatever.”

“Oh.” Cas’s voice is deflated, embarrassed. And Dean knows that what Sam’s saying is true, but there’s a reason Dean didn’t mention it when he and Cas had this conversation yesterday. Just because him and Sam have shit to work through doesn’t mean they have to project it on an angel who doesn’t have any stupid human reservations. He scowls at Sam.

“I-I mean,” Sam stammers, trying to smooth over the situation. “It’s not that you stop getting them when you grow up, you just, kinda, stop talking about it, I guess. Like I said, I still get them, too. I hadn’t in a while until I met Eileen.”

Cas still looks decidedly chastised, but less embarrassed. Sam sighs and then shoots Dean a look that says _If you make fun of me for this, I will kill you_.

“Sometimes I get them when Eileen is drunk and dancing and she asks me to dance with her. She stands on my feet and it makes me-” Sam gestures to his stomach, “ya know.”

Dean hadn’t known, not really. Of course, he noticed a difference in Sammy once Eileen came into the picture, even more so when they finally got together officially. But something settles deep in his chest knowing that there’s another person on their side. Knowing that Sam found someone after Jess.

Sam’s response earns him a soft smile from Cas, seemingly satisfied. “That’s very nice, Sam. It’s a good feeling. I’m glad that you get to experience it again.”

Sam pushes out his lips, blinks, clears his throat, like he’s trying to force down his emotions. “Hm.” He nods. And then his mouth twists into a smirk, and he looks at Dean pointedly, eyes still mysteriously wet. “What about you, Dean?”

Oh, no. Maybe he can play stupid. “What?”

“You ever get the butterflies?” 

Sam is such a little dickhead. He’s so obviously biting back laughter, but Cas seems none the wiser. He’s staring at Dean now, curiosity in those big, blue eyes as he waits for a response. It would be so easy to lie, but Dean’s really trying to stop with the pretending thing, and he knows sometimes all it takes is Cas looking at him the right way to make his stomach a fluttery mess. He also thinks that lying might actually crush Cas and it’s not worth it just to save himself from Sam’s teasing.

So he holds his head high and fakes it ‘til he makes it. “‘Course I do, man.” There’s a certain bravado in his voice, but no one calls him on it.

And it’s worth it for the way Cas’s face lights up and then settles into this contented kind of happiness that wrinkles the skin around his eyes. “Do you remember when?”

All Dean has to do is think about last night when Cas had stood up from the movie they were watching together to get popcorn, and he had squeezed Dean’s knee as he departed. That was how easy Dean was these days for Cas. He wants to answer, sort of, but Cas and Sam are both staring at him. He’s getting better, but he’s not cured of his no-chick-flick syndrome.

“I- uh, can’t think of anything off the top of my head.”

Cas narrows his eyes at him, and his smile has softened but it hasn’t left his face. He’s got that look like he knows Dean is lying but he’s too fond of him to say anything. “If you say so.”

And Dean can never deny Cas anything, especially these days. 

“How ‘bout next time it happens, I’ll let you know.”

Cas reaches over and grabs his hand and leaves Dean breathless. “I’d like that very much, Dean.”

...

It’s later that night, and all four of the Bunker’s residents have been rounded up for a family dinner. Cas and Eileen are huddled at the little metal table, while Dean and Sam cook. Well, Dean cooks. Sam just roasts his asparagus. They’re all sipping on the Moscow Mules that Eileen had mixed, just a little tipsy before the start of a great meal.

They don’t hit the hard stuff anymore, they don’t need to, but when Dean started his exploration in baking, Eileen started her own in mixology. She was getting almost too good, Dean thought, reminding himself that he should be sipping on the drink and not downing it because he can barely taste the alcohol. 

She’s explaining to Cas how she made them, signing quickly while she speaks quietly, and Dean smiles to himself at how Cas watches her with great focus as to not miss anything.

Dean waves to get their attention, and once they’re looking, he signs to Eileen at the same time that he talks.

“Eileen, these drinks are outstanding.”

His hands are still clumsy and he still fumbles, but he’s gotten better with all the time they spend together now in the kitchen. Sometimes, he even asks Cas to help him practice. Because he’d always liked the girl, but he loves her now. They understand each other, meeting in the middle like complimentary colors, oppositional at first glance but harmonious in their contrast. She’s always the first one to call him on his bullshit, and always the first one to offer him kind words and a hug when he needs it. Eileen had said they were like Sharkboy and Lavagirl. 

For once, it was a reference Dean didn’t understand, and when they watched the movie together, Dean pointed out that if he was Sharkboy and Eileen was Lavagirl, that meant Sam was Max. Sam didn’t think it was funny, but Eileen and Dean had giggled behind their hands for the rest of the movie. 

They still call him Max sometimes just to wind him up. 

“Secret recipe,” she says and signs, before pretending to zip her lips.

“That’s cold,” Dean shakes his head, and Eileen makes a motion as if she’s shivering. He flips her the bird when Sam is turned around. She just laughs.

The room is a contented quiet besides the sound of burgers sizzling in the pan when Eileen pipes up. “Where’s the Taylor Swift?”

Sam and Dean both look over their shoulders incredulously at her, but Cas is smiling.

“How-” Dean starts.

“How could you possibly know that there’s no music playing?” Sam finishes for him, hands moving fast.

Eileen just smiles coyly, “You don’t know everything about me. How do you think I’ve been hunting for so long? You pick up on things.”

They both gape at her. Cas sips at the Moscow Mule he can’t taste to unsuccessfully hide his amused grin.

“Sam,” Dean says seriously, “if you don’t marry this girl, I will.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll just marry Cas, then.”

“As always, you two are overlooking something here,” Cas interrupts, setting down his drink to sign along suspensefully. They all watch him with intrigue. “Eileen and I are already married.”

“Did Cas just make a joke?” Sam asks, perturbed.

Dean doesn’t know how strong Eileen mixed his Moscow Mule, but he has to lean against Sam’s shoulder to support himself from how hard he’s laughing.

“We were going to tell you eventually, but we didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” Eileen says through a grin.

Cas catches her hand in the air and holds it gently in his. He brings it to his mouth and kisses her middle knuckle with all the chivalry and tenderness of a royal subject to a queen. But his eyes are somewhere else. Locked on Dean’s face. “My beloved,” he says into Eileen's hand. 

Suddenly, laughing is the last thing Dean feels like doing. Dean’s ears are filled with cotton and the world has narrowed down to the point of his and Cas’s existence, down to where Cas pulls his lips away from Eileen’s hand. Cas looks through Dean, and the words _My beloved_ stretch him out beyond recognition. He’s pinned in place. His stomach writhes.

“Butterflies,” Dean says under his breath without meaning to.

No one seems to hear him, but Eileen must have caught his lips moving because she squints at them.

“Did you just say butterflies?” She asks with confusion, like she wonders if there was a separate conversation that she hadn’t realized was taking place. When she says the word “butterflies’, she signs with it, her thumbs interlocked and her fingers flexing back and forth like wings.

Everyone is staring at him now. A mischievous smile is growing on Sam’s face.

“Yeah, uh, I guess I did.”

He glances back at Cas, who’s still watching him hopefully.

Eileen looks between all of their varying expressions with bewilderment. “Did I miss something?”

It looks like it takes all of Cas’s strength to take his eyes off of Dean now, but he drags them away to meet Eileen’s.

“Yesterday, Dean explained the phenomenon of The Butterflies you get when someone you’re attracted to makes you pleasantly nervous. I told him earlier today that when he tucked the tag of my shirt in it gave me The Butterflies, and he said he’d tell me when he felt them, too. Which is apparently… now.” Cas’s hands hang in the air for a second on the last word and then drop into his lap.

He’s looking at Dean again with understanding, and it’s so fucking fond that Dean can barely stand it. He wonders where Cas hid it all these years, the weight of all of that love that’s so close to the surface now that Dean could reach out and touch it.

There’s a second where he lets Cas see through him, too, let’s all of his affection seep out into his gaze. But then it’s too much with Eileen and Sam both here to see it, and he feels exposed in the kitchen lighting that doesn’t hide anything. The lack of Taylor makes the silence all the more noticeable, and he has to pull away.

Dean rubs a hand over the bottom of his face, down the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, uh, yeah.” He turns back around to the stove to watch the burgers in lieu of escaping.

“That’s very sweet,” he hears Eileen say quietly.

“Yes-” Cas’s gruff voice, “Sam was also telling us about how you give him The Butterflies.”

And Dean knows it’s an out for him, the slight change in subject. He swallows. Cas just gets it. Cas always fucking gets it, and Dean doesn’t even think he needs to pray for Cas to feel the thankfulness rolling off of his shoulders.

He plates the burgers while he listens to the conversation unfold at his back.

“Dude!” Sam exclaims. “Not cool. 

“Well, why not?”

“I don’t know, isn’t it, like, bro-code to not say shit like that?”

“Sam, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but you sound like an idiot.”

“Now I want details,” Eileen’s voice suddenly cuts through the air like she’s biting back laughter. 

Dean turns around to find Sam sitting at the table beside Eileen. There’s an empty seat beside Cas left open for him. He allows himself a second to stare, to be in awe of the sheer completeness of what he is witnessing. The family that’s been built around him. That somehow he had ended up here. 

He walks to the table and sets the plate down in the middle, sits in the empty chair as Sam speaks up again. 

“There’s not much to say. I just, you give me butterflies sometimes.” Sam’s tone starts off terse but softens itself at the end. 

“You give me butterflies, too, Sam.” Eileen says, the movement of her hands as she signs ‘butterflies’ once again catching Dean’s attention. It’s fitting, he thinks, and he likes that it has a meaning beyond words. 

She reaches out to hold Sam’s hand. “I’ll tell you next time I get them,” she finishes.

Her words hang warm in the kitchen air, well past the end of the conversation. They eat together with the idea of butterflies becoming a cocoon in its own right. The burgers are good. The cocktails are better, and Eileen keeps them coming until Dean feels fluid and loose. 

They finally turn the Taylor back on, and it bounces off of the tile walls from the shitty speaker of Sam’s phone. _invisible string_ plays while Sam and Eileen sway back and forth together in each other’s arms, Eileen standing on Sam’s feet. 

It feels safe here. And Dean has to remind himself that’s because it is. 

“I love you,” he half-mumbles into Cas’s ear like a confession. 

“Butterflies,” Cas replies. 

…

The conversation of that night isn’t forgotten, no matter how sloshed they had ended up. 

It’s almost a joke at first- like some running gag, family secret, _you had to be there_ shit. It looks like Sam coming in sweaty after his run and Eileen looking at him playfully while she says, “Butterflies,” and fluttering her fingers. It looks like Cas agreeing to watch another Western with Dean even though he rolls his eyes, with Dean replying, “That’s no way to treat the man who gives your butterflies.” It looks like a tipsy Eileen standing in front of the TV that’s playing Finding Nemo, facing them and signing along to every word straight-faced as if she’s a White House interpreter, and Sam jokingly saying, “Butterflies, man.” It looks like Castiel’s annoyed expression when Dean pushes his freezing cold fingers up the back of Cas’s shirt while Cas groans, “This gives me the opposite of The Butterflies, Dean. You are a nuisance.”

Until it doesn’t look like that at all.

Until a joke can only be made so many times before the brain stops thinking it’s a joke, and everyone in the Bunker comes down with a case of the love bug. Where the sounds of _folklore_ are occasionally spoken over with a soft, “Butterflies,” in a reverent tone and it’s no longer odd for a conversation to be interrupted by the word.

It gets a little easier to say it, and Dean feels less and less like he has to pretend.

…

But a few days later, Dean wakes up and his skin feels too tight on his body. It’s gonna be a bad day, he can tell. He still gets them, knows that all of his family still gets them even with the majority of the proof of their tragic past erased from the pathways of his brain. The physical symptoms may be gone, but the memories are still there.

And Cas has been MIA for over seventy-two hours now. He had told Dean he would be, that Jack was doing some major reboot that required time and patience. Cas had left with a heartfelt and almost apologetic kiss, and now there’s a grayness seeping into Dean’s bones that he doesn’t want to think about.

He knows Cas is okay. But what if- and that’s enough to have him scratching anxiously at his arms and clenching his jaw so hard that his head pounds. Because he can’t lose him again. Dean feels pitiful with it, how Cas’s absence feels physical, how all he wants is to wallow in his bed until his angel is home.

Dean doesn’t wallow even though he wants to. He makes himself get up and face the day, makes a stingy breakfast for himself, and burns the eggs because his eyes are glazed over. The smell is obnoxious and the smoke won’t seem to clear. He grinds his teeth and counts to ten, pitching the burnt eggs in the trash and then gathering the bag to take it outside.

Taylor Swift is playing from somewhere down the hall, wherever Sam and Eileen are, and his eye twitches. 

When did Dean get so pathetic?

John’s grating voice drones on in the back of his head. Butterflies and Taylor Swift and movie nights and a _boyfriend_. His boyfriend that he can’t even go three fucking days without before turning into some worried housewife.

The feeling follows him through the Bunker like a storm cloud while he makes the trek to take the trash outside.

When he walks out into the main room, Sam and Eileen are both sitting at the map table on their laptops, their ankles hooked underneath. Dean looks at them, feels scared and shriveled and small in a way that makes bitterness rise up in him. His hand is shaking around the top of the garbage bag where it’s tensed into a white-knuckled fist.

 _Look at this idiotic fool that you made me,_ Taylor sings from the speaker, _You taught me a secret language I can't speak with anyone else._

“God, turn that shit off!” Dean yells, loud in his own ears. Sam jumps in his seat, kicking Eileen in the process. It makes Eileen flinch, too, and her head jolts up from where her eyes were glued to the screen. She looks at Sam first, then follows his gaze to where he’s staring at Dean with wide eyes. Dean realizes this is the first time since the world didn’t end that one of them has yelled.

It’s like the veil goes up. It’s like the yellow lighting of the Bunker is just sickly instead of warm. The calm of the last two weeks broken just like that. Sam pauses the music on his phone and the room becomes a tomb in silence.

“Dude,” Sam says. His expression is somewhere between annoyed and confused.

Eileen watches him questioningly, eyes big and worried.

For one sick fucking moment, Dean is really glad that she can’t hear him. Because there’s disgust in the back of his throat, at how easy it was for him to disrupt their moment. How easy it was to yell, especially with her there. Sam had heard worse, had said worse, but Eileen didn’t deserve Dean’s bullshit. And if he did something that scared her- if he did something that made her scared of him- he feels sick. 

He looks at Sam who’s obviously waiting for an explanation. His eyes move to Eileen who’s frowning like she wants to ask if he’s okay.

Dean drops the garbage bag on the floor and runs away.

All he ever does is run away.

His feet take him to the shooting range, a room he hasn’t been in in over a month and a half. He doesn’t even think he’s picked up a gun since that fateful day by the lake.

When he shuffles through their stockpile, everything bangs and rattles, metal against metal that feels too violent. Everything feels too violent. Dean wonders how he’s the same person that used to torture people. He wants to put on Taylor Swift and cry along to her voice, to the lyrics that make too much sense for the fact that she’s a pop star who has no idea about anything he’s gone through.

Once he settles on a pistol, the cold weight in his hand is both familiar and nauseating. The calluses on his fingers have smoothed slightly from disuse and they feel too soft to be holding a weapon. He thinks about all the people he’s killed. He thinks about how easy it used to be for him to pull the trigger. He wishes Cas was here.

Dean doesn’t let himself dwell on it and takes a stance centered on one of the targets down the way. He shoots. The kick of the gun, once satisfying, feels like it’s goading him with whispers of something to prove, that he’s a man, that he knows how to kill somebody, that he knows how to take up space and intimidate and make you never question whether he could hurt you because you know he could. 

He shoots the full round, anyway. 

The last bullet casing hasn’t even hit the ground when Dean hears footsteps coming from around the corner. He can tell by the weight and gait that it’s just Sammy, but he tenses regardless.

Sure enough, Sam’s giant frame enters the room. Dean doesn’t bother looking up at him, but he doesn’t reload the gun either, just starts to dismantle it like a nervous habit to avoid eye contact.

Sam doesn’t say anything as he passes behind Dean to get to the other side of him, where he sinks to the floor a few feet away to sit with his back leaning up against the half-wall Dean is shooting over.

“So, you gonna tell me what that was all about?” he asks up to Dean.

Dean just grunts. The gun is in pieces on the countertop, and he starts the process of reassembling it.

Sam is undeterred. “You seemed pretty mad back there, man.”

The only response he gets is the clicking of metal pieces slotting back into place.

Finally, “Eileen’s worried about you.”

That makes Dean set the now fully assembled gun back down on the counter with more force than necessary. He huffs an irritated breath out his nose because that’s a low blow even for Sam, who knows exactly the kind of soft spot Dean has for Eileen. But Dean also knows that Sam probably isn’t lying just to get him to talk. The image of Eileen’s concerned eyes right before he stormed out flash in his mind. 

“Dean, what’s wrong?” Sam asks hushed, tired and comforting like he actually wants to know. “Is this about Cas?”

Dean pushes the gun back and forth across the countertop with his fingertips. It takes him swallowing three times before he feels like he can get his voice together. When he speaks, his voice is rusty.

“Do you ever wonder what Dad would think,” he clears his throat, “if he saw us right now.” It’s not really a question as much as it’s an explanation.

“It crosses my mind. Every once in a while.” Sam sounds resigned.

“That we’re- that I’m-” Dean can’t make himself say the words. He growls and slams his hands down in front of him, making Sam jump.

“That you’re _what_ , Dean?”

“That I get fucked in the ass, Sam. That I’m currently going hot and heavy with an angel of the Lord, and he has a dick, and I like it. That-that we have Taylor Swift playing all the time like we’re a couple of goddamn teenage girls who talk about their butterflies and their feelings while we braid each other’s fucking hair.” His voice gets louder as he goes until he’s yelling again, his neck straining as he finally turns to Sam to scowl down at him.

Sam glares back, narrows his eyes, and then scoffs and looks away. There’s an unkind smile playing on his face.

“Yeah,” Sam nods. “Okay. You’re right.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re right,” Sam says, louder now. When he faces Dean again it’s in defiance. “We’re soft. We fell for the ultimate weakness. God forbid we try to start a family and have some normalcy. No, we don’t deserve that. We’re Winchester’s. We’re real men, Dean. _Hunters_. We don’t do love, we don’t do family, we don’t do weakness. In fact, why don’t I go tell Eileen that I can’t hunt with her anymore ‘cause her disability could get me killed? Let me just say, ‘Hey, Eileen, I thought I loved you but that’s just because I was being a pussy, and you’re a liability just by existing because you’re deaf’.”

“Don’t you dare,” Dean snarls. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that.”

“Like what, Dean? The way Dad would? The way Dad would look at me and her and tell me he thinks it’s cute that I have puppy love for someone like her?”

“That’s enough!” Dean roars, and there are furious tears gathering in his eyes.

Sam is staring at him with a clenched jaw, nostrils flaring. “You’re saying that’s not _exactly_ what Dad would say? That he wouldn’t see Eileen as a weakness before he saw her as a person?”

Dean can’t make his mouth move.

“You don’t like it when I talk about Eileen the way Dad would, do you? Well, I don’t like it when you talk about Cas that way, either. Or yourself, for that matter.”

Sam’s words make Dean’s bottom lip tremble. He grinds his teeth but the burn in the back of his throat won’t seem to get any better. His eyes falter from Sam’s and he looks away, has to look away.

“I’m just gonna say it. The old man wasn’t always right, Dean. He was almost never right. And if I tried to live my whole life wondering whether he’d like the way I was living, I would stay miserable trying to please him. Because I love Eileen, and I’m not fucking ashamed of it. I love the new Taylor Swift album. I love that I have my family here with me all of the time and that we have dinner together and watch Disney movies.”

The tears that have been waiting in the wings since what feels like the second Cas left finally spill out of Dean’s eyes. He feels so stupid. What is he supposed to do when everything in him intersects and conflicts, every second of his existence in friction with himself? When all he wants is to thread his fingers through Cas’s and bump their shoulders together while they walk through some park they stumbled upon on their way to a car show, because there’s finally time to enjoy the little things.

He thinks about how Eileen always compliments his baking and offers up new ideas for recipes. How happy that makes him. Thinks about how much he likes the new Taylor Swift album, too, and his gratefulness for the unspoken way Sam mans the speaker to make sure music is always playing so that the Bunker doesn’t get too quiet.

Dean finally looks down at Sam, a tear dripping from the tip of his nose, and he feels like the little brother.

Sam meets his gaze with soft, sympathetic eyes.

“You know what I think?”

Dean blinks down at Sam in response.

“I think that you’re worried about Cas, and you miss him. And that this freak out has been coming for a long time, but you waited until he was gone because you didn’t want to hurt him. Because you didn’t really mean what you said, and you didn’t want him to hear you say it. And you wanted me to tell you that all the doubts you’ve been having are wrong.”

Sam sounds so wise from his spot on the floor, and Dean wonders when he missed all the subtle changes of Sam becoming the person he is now. Dean tries to see the baby that he raised in the stubbled face looking up at him, and it’s impossible and too easy all at once.

Because they got old. They both did. They both got old enough to be wise and to mess up and to fall in love permanently. The thought blooms inside of Dean’s chest like a miracle.

“Well, I’m here,” Sam says, “and you’re wrong. But I think you kinda know that already.”

Dean sniffles and reaches out a hand for Sam to clasp onto to pull him up from the ground. Once he’s up, Dean wraps his arms around him, around Sam’s middle, lets his forehead rest on Sam’s shoulder when Sam squeezes him back.

“Dean, I’m really happy for you and Cas, you know that right? I’m not Dad. No one here is Dad, either. And I know it’s not the nicest truth… but Dad’s dead, and he’s not gonna come back to punish you for being happy.”

“Yeah,” Dean finally manages out into the material of Sam’s shirt. He gives one last squeeze, and when he pulls away Sam claps him on the shoulder. Dean looks him in the eye. “Thank you, Sammy.”

Sam nods, something exhausted but hopeful in his expression. He grabs the gun off of the counter and replaces it into the cage before pushing at Dean’s back.

“C’mon. There’s a sweet girl who likes your pumpkin pie out there that’s worried about you.”

… 

Cas comes home the next day. Dean is in the shower belting along to the lyrics of _betty_ as he massages shampoo into his scalp. The melody of the song plays from his phone and fills the room with the building bridge, and Dean’s feet squeak as he dances around on the wet shower floor. 

“I was walking home on broken cobblestones just thinking of you when she pulled up like a figment of my worst intentions. She said, ‘James, get in, let’s drive’. Those days t-”

There’s a knock on the bathroom door that cuts Dean’s singing off short even if Taylor continues on without him. 

“What, Sam? Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt another man’s performance?”

A barked laugh rings through the bathroom door, the music, the shower curtain, the rush of water, until it hits Dean through the layers. He freezes, and shampoo water drips in his eye. 

“Cas?” Dean calls. 

“Yes, Dean, it’s me. I just wanted to let you know that I was back.”

Everything slots into place. The fissure that was his body only a second ago suddenly heals into something legible. It’s screaming at him to bust through the bathroom door naked and soapy to pull Cas into his arms, but he refrains.

“That’s real good to hear, Cas. I’ll- I’ll be out in a sec.”

Dean rushes through rinsing the shampoo from his hair and slaps some body soap on to then stand under the running water so quickly that it probably barely counted as washing at all. He could shower again later if he felt like it, there were more important things to attend to.

His hurry earns him a few slips and stumbles on the wet tile that he curses through as he dries himself off, before pulling his clothes on fast enough he’s afraid he might rip a seam. He pauses the music on his phone and throws himself through the door.

Cas is waiting in the hallway right on the other side. He sees Dean and smiles.

“Dean,” he says warmly

And Dean is paralyzed by it, Cas’s physical presence like a shock to the body. He’s just staring, but Cas doesn’t seem too concerned. Because Cas is back and alive and whole and home. Waiting for the hug and kiss that Dean can finally greet him with after all of these years.

He steps in close and wraps his arms around the angel. The texture of Cas’s trench coat is lovely and familiar under Dean’s fingertips, but he itches to get Cas into something softer, something he can nap against. Dean closes his eyes and keeps holding on, even when the nagging little habit of distancing himself tries to remind him he should pull away. He doesn’t want to, and Cas makes no attempt to unwind their arms.

“Missed you,” Dean breathes down Cas’s neck.

“I missed you, too,” Cas replies, and presses a careful kiss into the wet hair above Dean’s ear.

Dean finally leans back.

When Cas looks at him, his eyebrows pinch together. “You look tired.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean chuckles dryly and scratches the back of his neck, “I was worried ‘bout you. Haven’t been sleeping very well.”

Cas frowns. It morphs into something soft and thoughtful. “You’d like to take a nap.”

Dean’s not sure if Cas actually read his mind or if he’s just making an astute observation because of how well he knows Dean, but Dean doesn’t have the heart to question it or deny it.

“At least lay down or something. Watch a movie. I’ve been pretty wound up.”

“Whatever you want.” Cas’s gaze is sympathetic. 

They end up in the Dean Cave after Cas changes into some of Dean’s old, worn clothes. Cas is sitting on the couch while Dean lays across it with his head in Cas’s lap. Tombstone plays in the background with the volume turned almost all the way down.

“You let Sam and Eileen know that you’re back?” Dean asks to the underside of Cas’s jaw.

“Yes, I ran into them on my way through to find you. They went out for lunch, I’m assuming to give us some privacy.”

That makes Dean snort in amusement. “Yeah, I guess we can get pretty loud, huh?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and lets his tongue peak through his teeth.

Cas just rolls his eyes. He brushes his nimble fingers through Dean’s hair. It makes Dean short circuit into a puddle, and he sighs while the weight of his eyelids seem to get heavier and heavier under Cas’s caring touch and the way it makes him hyperaware of his own skin.

When he focuses his eyes again, Cas is looking down at him tenderly.

“These last few days have been hard on you.” It’s not a question. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Cas. There’s nothing to be sorry for.” He turns his head to press his lips against the soft fabric of the t-shirt covering Cas’s stomach before looking back up at him.

“Perhaps. I’m sorry for the anxiety it caused you, anyway.”

Dean shrugs as much as he can from his position. “Better now that you’re home,” Dean parrots Cas’s words from what must have been over two weeks ago, because he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that moment of realization. Cas must get it because he smiles and scritches his fingernails against Dean’s scalp. It makes Dean feel so good, but absolutely restless in his skin.

“Can I see you?”

They’ve only done it once or twice since the first time they shacked up, but Cas doesn’t seem surprised by the request. His fingertips are as lazy as ever through Dean’s hair.

“Are you comfortable?” Cas responds.

When Dean hums up at him, he feels the power of Cas’s grace bleeding into his skin until it’s underneath. It wraps around him like a full-body hug, the way the sleeping robe had felt when he was a cartoon, and the memory makes him smile. The warmth washes over him like a tide.

Cas looks at him curiously. “What are you smiling about?”

“Scooby-Doo,” is all Dean can manage, but it makes Cas chuckle in understanding.

“That’s a fond memory for me, too. Being two dimensional was pleasant in its own way.”

Dean doesn’t bother answering, just floats on having Cas so close after being so far away from him. It’s funny how the energy is so distinctly Cas-shaped, the way you could identify someone by touch, a sixth sense where Cas’s existence inside Dean’s mind becomes its own identifier. It feels so good, like the color lilac, patterns like beehives, the way that chocolate chip mocha ice cream tastes. The way that Cas’s stubble feels against his skin. Full. Dean’s eyelids flutter indefinitely against the onslaught. 

He could be twitching, or he could be loose and relaxed. He's not really sure from this perspective. 

A thought surfaces, unbidden but true through the energy.

 _It feels like I’ve been waiting my whole life to feel this,_ Dean thinks, _and I’m terrified._

Cas wraps around him like an affectionate cat made of fog. 

_Do not be afraid,_ Dean feels in response. The irony of the statement is absolutely not lost on Dean, and he doesn’t think it’s lost on Cas either, but it’s far from funny. The weight of the words feels ancient in Dean’s mind, otherworldly and unfathomable, serving as a reminder of what Cas is even though Dean sees him do the extraordinary every day. 

Dean thinks that in his physical body, he can feel the soft press of lips to his.

 _Do not be afraid._ Goosebumps break out across his skin. A hand in his hair. _Let me show you._

There’s a surge of power that reminds Dean of a flower blooming, the final burst before the bud opens. Dean feels the strumming anticipation that Cas feels when he looks at him. He witnesses how the warmth of his body is Castiel’s resting place, how the pulse of his soul is Castiel’s compass. Then there’re the butterflies, so strong that Dean doesn’t know how Cas can stand them, like his stomach being thrown back and forth by the force of a speeding car over a hill.

And under it all is love. It’s so warm and vibrant and it looks like the table in their kitchen with everyone sitting around it. Cas’s wings outstretched, massive and wrapped around the three others, protecting them all even though none of them could see.

_You do not have to be afraid anymore._

… 

That night, they all eat dinner together in celebration of Cas’s return. Dean makes caramel pear pie, and Eileen makes enough Mint Julep mix to knock out an elephant. 

Sam had brought the speaker down, and _the last great american dynasty_ is the missing puzzle piece of the night. The beat is infectious, and it makes Dean want to dance. He grabs Eileen’s hands in his and swings her around, both of them stumbling into each other, just the right side of tipsy.

“There goes the last great American dynasty,” Dean sings along through a grin, shimmying his shoulders.

“Who knows if she never showed up what could’ve been!” Sam belts. His eyes are clenched shut and his head is bobbing back and forth on his shoulders.

When Dean looks to his right, Cas is already watching him with fond joy. There’s a smile on his face like he’s never been happier, and Dean understands the sentiment. 

“Butterflies,” he says at the same time Cas does, except there were more voices that spoke than just them. Four voices. Dean shoots a look over his shoulder to where Eileen and Sam are huddled close and staring at him and Cas in awe.

“Holy shit!” Sam crows.


End file.
